


Tears You Apart

by unintentionalove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Duel Narratives, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Illnesses, M/M, Separations, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionalove/pseuds/unintentionalove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles has to go back to the beginning in order to move forward. Three years after the death of his parents, he's returned to his childhood home to complete renovations and sell the house before he closes a chapter of his life and moves on. Going back stirs memories of a vicious childhood with a ruthless stepfather and a repressed mother. Louis Tomlinson never had an issue with who he was, but the past three years have not been kind. Struggling to take care of a declining mother and not lose his job, Louis doesn't expect his past to come walking in through the front door. There are secrets buried in an old house down a dirt road and a past that needs to be confronted if the two have any hope of going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Harry's lips were on fire. He was thankful for the heat that was churning out of the vents of his car, even more thankful when he considered how improbable it was for this bucket of bolts to have heat with all it had been through in the past eight years. He'd gotten the car his last year at college, thanks to the generosity of the person referred to only as “him” in Harry's memory. He pressed his lips tightly together to cool them down and refocus himself. The wind rattled the windows as he inched the knob back to avoid setting his entire face on fire. This wind would finish him, he was certain. Of all times he'd chosen to come back to this God forsaken place, of course he'd chosen November. It was nearly unbearable enough that temperatures were hovering in the lower thirties, let alone the constant drizzle from the sky that would never freeze and turn to snow or ice.

He took a left, beginning his way down an expansive private drive, the beginning of which was marked by two stone pillars on either side and a wrought iron gate Harry didn't think he'd ever seen closed the entire time he'd been growing up. The iron numbers on the right side pillar were rusted and worn, bearing a shabby looking “924”. 924 Twist Boulevard. Harry could feel his stomach curling into knots as the car glided down the asphalt drive. The grounds behind the pillars had grown unkempt and forlorn in the last three years, hedges untrimmed and grass unmowed. The willows that hung over the drive were shedding little leaves like helicopters to the ground, golden confetti floating with a flourish through the frenzied wind, landing with ripples on the surface of the pond to Harry's left. His eyes traveled upward as he slowed to see if the rope was still knotted on the one oak tree on the property. There it hung, as it had for nearly twenty years now, swaying back and forth in the wind. He heaved a sigh and gripped the steering wheel tighter, taking a final curve to the right and rounding into a circular drive with a fountain smack in the middle. His stepfather had never been one for simple chic.

He twisted the keys to cut the engine and felt the blast of heat leave with the shudder of the car. His head turned to peer out of the window at the brick house on the other side of the fountain. His eyes cringed at the edges as they took in the house front, one red shutter hanging slightly askew on what Harry knew was a kitchen window. The matching brick red front door still had the remnants of an artificial Christmas wreath from three years ago hanging on it, Harry had no idea how it had lasted through three years of windstorms and western Washington weather, but it peered at him nonetheless, reminding him of his mother. She had loved the holidays, had always pulled him into dressing up the house with her. They would make an event of it, his mother pulsing Christmas music through the sound system they had laced through the house, Harry unpacking boxes of old ornaments and family heirlooms with a gentle hand only pausing to stir the mulled cider his mother insisted on having every year at decorating time. She'd always laugh as she went along, a laugh that sounded like bells. It echoed in his mind as he wrapped his scarf tighter around him and finally grasped the handle of the car door to step out.

Leaves were floating on the surface of the water that had collected in the fountain. Harry craned his neck to the right as he approached the front door and saw the tin-roofed tool shed in the distance. Memories came flooding in like the torrential downpour he knew would be coming from the Washington sky any moment now. He didn't have time for memories, he was here to do a job and be done with it. He bit down gently on the tip of his tongue behind closed lips, jabbed his old house key in the handle, and twisted the knob open to the foyer of the old house. His first footsteps inside echoed through the granite and marble. A cherry wood table sat in the middle of the foyer, a vase sitting atop it that was delicate white with pale blue flowers and leaves painted into the flow of it. It had been his mother's favorite. He'd nearly broken it once with his electronic helicopter when he was thirteen and had saved it just before it hit the ground and smashed into a million pieces. One of the better moments of his young life.

He turned to his right and ambled toward the kitchen, rubbing his hands together as he walked. Three years of no heat and no activity had taken its toll, and these walls would never be as forgiving as they were when his mother inhabited every corner of them. Harry noticed the thick dust that coated every surface in here, what had been gleaming stainless steel appliances now looked haunting and worn. He walked through the kitchen straight ahead into a dining room that held a great oak table that seated twelve. It had only ever been used when they were hosting dinner parties or on the rare occasions his stepfather had been home for dinner. The three of them would sit at one end, his stepfather's voice booming through the mostly empty room about one trivial happening at work or another, his mother graciously nodding along and adding affirming comments or agreements at exactly the right place. That's what she had been in her life, his mother. A woman full of vivacity and exuberance and kindheartedness had been reduced to a yes man of sorts, her presence relegated to the building up and fanning of his stepfather's ego.

He traced a smiley face into the dust on the dining room table, smiling to himself at how mad that would have made his stepfather ages ago. He liked to remind himself of his own invincibility on occasion these days. The only person he had fear of anymore was himself, and for good reason. His phone began to buzz in the pocket of the black woolen pea coat, and it gave him a start. Who the fuck was calling him right now? He yanked the phone out of his pocket and held it up to see his roommate's face staring back at him in a goofy, definitely not sober smile. Sliding his finger across the screen and lifting the phone to his ear, he tried to put a bit of human emotion into his voice.

“Liam, I thought I said before I left I'd be busy today.” His voice came out in almost a whisper even though he was perfectly alone.

“Well hello to you, too, Jericho!”, Liam's voice thundered through the speaker of the phone. Harry winced at the nickname that had become so commonplace over the past three years. He'd met Liam Payne and their other roommate, Niall Horan, at an obscure battle of the bands competition two weeks after he'd moved to San Francisco. Liam and Niall had been friends for years, but had instantly taken a liking to Harry. At the time, they were conveniently looking for a third roommate in their flat, and Harry -who had grown weary of roach motels from the little money he had left- was more than happy to oblige. He came in with no job and no prospects, but Liam and Niall had taken him in, gotten him a job, and put up with his bullshit. “Jericho” was the nickname Niall had invented for him one drunken night, because “he had more walls than a goddamn protected Biblical city”. It had become a mantra of sorts for Harry whenever he needed to emotionally bow out of anything and go numb, he'd recite “Jericho” on repetition in his head.

“Sorry, I just got in,” Harry's voice is still just above a whisper, “the place is like the land time forgot.” He runs his finger along the dining table again, “just not the land that dust forgot, apparently.” He hears Liam's chuckle through the phone and cocks a small smile to himself.

“Three years is bound to do that to any place, friend,” Liam starts with a sympathetic tone. Harry knows that tone too well, he's become acquainted with it like an old friend. “I just called to see that you were alright. Niall and I were worried, we hadn't heard from you.” With anyone else, Harry would feel an immediate surge of guilt. It's one of the few emotions he still feels these days. Liam, though, always has a way of saying things and putting them to Harry that feel genuinely understanding and accomodating, never as though Harry's an inconvenience or a burden. It lifts his spirits considerably.

“Sorry about that, Li. I made it to my hotel last night and crashed after I got there. Woke up pretty early this morning to make my way here. Lynnwood's only about twenty minutes from the city, but I just wanted some time before the contractors came to reacquaint myself with this place.”

“That makes sense. Are you going back to the city today?” Liam asked gently. Harry furrowed his brow and thought for a moment.

“Yeah. Probably. Thing is, I'll probably go back and check out of the hotel. I think I want to stay here in town rather than in the city.” Liam cleared his throat slightly.

“You... you think that's a good idea, H?” Liam's voice was like kittens it was so soft. Harry could tell he was trying to keep him safe and protected. It was a very Liam thing to do. Still, he'd made up his mind on the drive up this morning, sitting in line at his favorite coffee stand.

“Probably not exactly a brilliant idea, Li. But I think it's necessary. I need to be close in case the contractors need me. Besides, this is supposed to be cathartic, right? 'Facing my past to move forward into my future', right?”

“You said it, then. Just remember that Nialler and I are here no matter what. If you need us, call us.” From the background, Harry heard Niall start crooning Diana Ross. If you need me, call me, no matter where you are, no matter how far, don't worry baby! Harry rolls his eyes with a half smile lifting one side of his mouth. His roommates in one phone call-- Liam being soft and caring and concerned, and Niall being ridiculous and making Harry laugh. He could picture him shaking about like a loon, the threat of sloshing the beer Harry knew he had in his hand because Niall firmly believed in the “fur of the dog” method to quelling hangovers. He couldn't count how many times Niall had put whiskey in his coffee the morning after a particularly raucous night, insisting it'd “fix Harry right up”. It never worked.

“Thanks, Li. I'll call you two crazy kids tonight if you're not out. Don't have too much fun without me.”

“Never.” Harry lowered the phone and pressed the end button with the remnants of the smile on his face. Okay. Back to business. He pocketed his phone once again and squared his shoulders to walk out of the dining room, through the kitchen, and back out into the foyer. His eyes went slowly up the banister that twisted just slightly with the line of the stairs. He'd told his therapist two weeks ago that going upstairs would be the most difficult part for him before quickly changing his mind. There was another space that existed that Harry dare not broach, not even with his memory. Considering that, he swallowed hard and pushed ahead up the stairs. This would be nothing by comparison. A flurry of dust flew up and behind him with every step up, and he wondered whether it was the dust or his nerves that was causing the dryness in his mouth. His tongue felt heavy behind his teeth and he clamped down hard to regain some sort of sensation.

He reached the top of the stairs and pivoted to the right, his stomach sinking lower with every consecutive step. The hall table with the vase of fake peonies his mother had loved were still sitting just below the gold gilded mirror that had belonged to his grandmother and handed down to his mother. It had a thick layer of dust and grime from years of standing still with no one pausing to consider their reflection inside of it. Unfortunately, that's exactly what Harry decided to do as he turned to face it and lifted his sleeve to swipe away as much of the build-up as possible. When he was satisfied with his work, he stepped back a bit on his heel to examine himself. The shadows under his eyes had deepened even more if that was possible, taking on a purplish color that unnerved him whenever he seriously thought about it. Liam always said his green eyes sparkled when he was drunk, but right now there was a flatness, a lifelessness in them that he didn't dare to face. His skin was flat, too, the only point of interest for him was how prominent his jawline had grown as he had gotten older, leading smoothly into high cheekbones that were often complimented as he had grown up. His lips, naturally a light pink color so most people thought he wore lipstick, were rough and chapped from spending days in harbors with wind in his face and a camera around his neck. He combed his fingers through his unruly hair that would have given his mother a fit if she were still alive, a wild mass of curls that tangled around each other almost to his shoulders. He'd cut it one day, but currently he simply couldn't be bothered.

He continued to examine himself, shrugging the angle of his broad shoulders forward and backward in a nearly comical fashion, though no smile went to his lips. He didn't smile often when he was alone anymore. He lowered his eyes nervously, almost as if any moment now his mother would round the corner and catch him being silly in the mirror like she did when he was a boy. He could see her in his memory, brown hair with flecks of gold twisted back into a knot at the crown of her head and secured with a pencil, laundry basket balanced on one hip and an exasperated look melting through her eyes. She often did chores during the day, though Robin, Harry's stepfather, would roar at her that's what help was for. Chores gave her a sense of normalcy and peace, she always said, they reminded her of the days before his stepfather had come into the picture, before she'd lived in a six bedroom home with servants. She always got upset when Robin called them that, and even more upset the one time Harry had.

He took a deep breath in, watching his shoulders move upward and feeling his stomach bulge outward. His therapist had told him about different breathing exercises to calm himself down, but he didn't think any breathing exercises he could attempt right now would quell the absolute storm raging in his stomach. He passed three doors before turning to one on his left and staring at a crudely drawn sign in silver metallic permanent marker: “HARRY EDWARD STYLES ONLY: ALL OTHERS KEEP OUT”. He couldn't believe that sign was still there. He'd have thought his stepfather would have ripped it down and burned it with other things long ago. His bony hand shot out to grasp the brass doorknob and twisted, pushing the door open all at once and taking in his childhood bedroom.

The four post queen sized bed which had absolutely swallowed him when he was a kid seemed small now. It was still covered with a dark blue duvet, his favorite color-- blue. All of the colors seemed a bit off with the obligatory layer of dust. His cherry wood chest of drawers that sat just to the left of him still had little bottles of varying cologne and film canisters sitting atop it. He spied the watch his stepfather had given him for his sixteenth birthday sitting there, too, the hands long since ceased their ticking. On the far side of the room in a bay of white-veined windows sat the desk he'd spent hours at every night, dedicated as he was to his studies while in high school. An adjustable lamp sat craned over a single spot in the desk which still had papers scattered over it. His eyes raked across the room to the wall on the right of the desk and settled on a corkboard that had photos pinned to them.

He made his way slowly across the room, remembering where he'd once had a fish tank and a model train complete with a village and the entire set-up. He wondered momentarily what his mother had ever done with that before reaching the corkboard itself and stopping to examine it. Wrapping his arms tightly around his torso, his eyes leapt from photo to photo. There was one of his mother and stepfather posed awkwardly next to each other, his mother with a sort of half smile, never losing the gleam in her eye, and his stepfather with his usual face: not smiling. There were pictures with his friends through the years, Harry spotted the first girl he'd ever kissed on a dare, Cara, in one of the pictures. Him in a t-ball uniform. But it was the photo smack in the middle of the board that he saved for last, because he knew what was held inside of it.

It was the only photo of the boy he hadn't removed in a fit from this board on a fateful night nearly twelve years ago. He hadn't known then what had stopped him, and he didn't know now. The face smiled at him, nearly taunting. The boy in the photo was small, Harry might even use the word dainty to describe him. He had shaggy brown hair that hung in his eyes a bit, the eyes that Harry could see shining like the sky even in an old photograph. His mega-watt smile was the stuff of sonnets and serenades, and everything from his small shoulders to his short stature to his delicate ankles screamed softness and happiness. It was everything Harry had been avoiding for a solid three years, and facing it now was no easy task. There was an imaginary anvil squarely in place on his chest, and it made breathing difficult. His head was too fuzzy and swimming in too many memories to remember the supposedly helpful breathing exercises his therapist had taught him in case this very scenario played itself out. And funny enough, it was his therapist's voice that came to his mind as his breathing grew ever more labored.

“We've made discussion of the subject of this young man off limits to create a safe space for you, Harry, but how can I advise you best how to handle going home knowing you may be confronted with memories of him?”

Harry stumbled back and landed with a cloud of dust on the edge of his bed. The breathing exercises weren't working. “Louis”, he whispered, “where the hell are you?”

 

“Mom, how come Louis's mommy lets him paint his fingernails?” Harry dragged his red crayon across the paper absentmindedly. There were more pressing questions on his mind today.

“Does she let him do that?” Anne responded as she placed a dinner plate on a stack inside a kitchen cabinet. Harry nodded.

“Yesterday when they come over, Louis had blue nail polish on his fingers. And I told him nail polish was for girls, but he said that it isn't always for girls, that boys can wear it, too.”

“Is that so?”

“And I told him boys with dads didn't wear nail polish.”

“Harry!” Anne set the last plate down with a sharp sound on the stack in the cabinet and spun around with a fierce look of unhappiness on her face. “Please tell me you didn't say that.” Harry's eyes grew wide.

“Well no boy with a dad that I ever saw wore nail polish.” He lowered his eyes from Anne's gaze to stare with flushing hot red cheeks at the crayon marking of the same color he'd made only moments ago.

“It's not Louis' fault he doesn't have a daddy, Harry. And it's a good thing he and his mommy are coming over again later today, because you're going to apologize.” Harry groaned and thought it seemed impossible, Anne's eyes flashed and grew even more fierce than before. “Harry Edward, don't you dare. That was a very inconsiderate thing to say to Louis yesterday. If Robin weren't here you wouldn't have a daddy, either, and would you be happy if someone said something about that?” Harry still had his eyes downcast away from her gaze, his black curly hair falling down into the front, but he shook his head slightly and fidgeted in his chair. “I didn't think so. Now. Pack up your crayons and come help me feed Bubbles.” Bubbles was his goldfish, and he had conversations with him every day while he fed him. Louis had a Beta fish, but you couldn't stick your hand in the tank or else it might try to eat your finger off. Harry had told Louis once when they were fighting that his fish was ugly after Louis had told him that his model airplane was dumb. Louis didn't like airplanes or trains like he did, and his mom let him go to dance classes. Harry wanted to go to dance classes and told his mom so, but Robin had said no. Louis was better at t-ball than he was, though. His mom said it was because Louis had better coordination, Robin said he couldn't let Tinkerbell outdo him. That's what Robin called Louis when he wanted to make his mom mad, was Tinkerbell.

He padded down the hall beside the kitchen after his mother until they reached the great room in the back with high windows and higher ceilings looking out on the lake. On one of his mom's many spindly-legged tables sat a glass bowl with a little orange fish swimming around inside. He'd been a present from Robin the day he'd gotten his first home run at t-ball. Harry walked up to the table and watched his mom carefully unscrew the top from the little yellow jar that held Bubbles' fish food. It smelled gross, and Harry always crinkled his nose and held his breath as he pinched two fingers between a mound of flakes and then sprinkled them into Bubbles' bowl and watched the fish surface in little ploop sounds to eat the food flake by flake.

“Hello!” A voice called out from the front door. Harry knew immediately it was his mother's best friend, Johannah, only no one called her Johannah and everyone called her Jay. She was a perpetually bright woman with lively blue eyes that matched her sons and a curtain of straight, shiny brown hair that framed her heart-shaped face and accentuated her cheeks. She was short like Louis, too, and had the same blinding smile when she was happy. Harry always loved her hugs, they were a warm place.

“On our way!” Anne yelled back as she grabbed Harry's hand. His cheeks flushed again as he realized that Louis was probably still mad at him for saying mean things yesterday and now he'd be made to apologize in front of everyone. He kept his eyes on the ground as they made their way back through the hall and into the foyer, where Jay stood beside Louis. Louis was two years older than Harry but only slightly taller, with his mother's chestnut brown hair in a rounded cut and cherub cheeks that sat under his eyes, the color of a June sky. They sparkled with mischief most of the time, as there was always some form of trouble Louis was looking to get into, and usually dragging Harry along with him. Today, though, his eyes weren't twinkling and he didn't flash his smile at Harry from beside his mother, and Harry's face fell when his eyes dared to shoot up and look at him before darting straight back to the floor. He toed one spot on the ground beneath him with a socked foot and tried not to look at anyone.

Anne could not be bothered. In her eyes, when someone had been wronged, there was little mercy to be found until the wrong was righted. “Harry”, she began, and Harry could feel his cheeks getting hotter with embarrassment, “tell Louis you're sorry for yesterday.” Jay looked confused as Harry's eyes lifted back toward Louis and the boy whose eyes had turned to frost and offered no grace as he struggled to get his words out.

“I'm... I'm sorry, Louis.”

“For?” Anne prompted.

“For saying you can't wear nail polish. And I'm sorry about your daddy.” Jay's eyes showed equal parts shock, concern, and amusement as she considered the curly-haired little boy trying to make amends with her son. She was too quick and too kind for her own good, though.

“Louis”, she began, looking down at the older boy, “what do you say?” The prompting really wasn't necessary. Louis took two steps toward Harry, threw his arms around the boy's neck and squeezed.

“It's okay, Harry. Always friends.” Jay and Anne smiled with contentment and even more amusement as Harry hugged around Louis' waist and the two boys parted.

“Good. Now off with you two, go find something to do”, Anne scooted the boys out as she and Jay made their way to the kitchen.

“Even more eventful day around here yesterday than I thought, eh?” Harry could hear Jay asking Anne as they linked arms and walked towards an afternoon cup of coffee.

It wasn't until later that evening, when Anne, Harry, and Robin had been gathered around the formal dining table grouped at one end in stony silence as they were served plates of coq au vin and one of the maids named Stella was refilling Robin's wine glass, that Robin began yet another tirade about “that woman and that boy”. It had always stood that Robin was not fond of Jay and her “bastard son” as Robin called Louis when he was extremely angry. Jay didn't care for him, either. Try as he may, though, Robin had never been able to discontinue the time his wife spent with her friend.

“I see that Tinkerbell was wearing nail polish today.” Anne was cutting her meat and breathed a heavy sigh, knowing what was coming. “Really, Anne, it's not right, dance classes and nail polish. This is what happens when a woman tries to raise a young boy by herself. Why d'ya think I call him Tinkerbell, eh? He'll grow up to be a fairy, just you watch.”

“That's enough, Robin”, Anne said as Stella filled her wine glass. “I don't want Harry hearing words like that.”

“And why the hell not? He's soft enough as it is. Always clinging to you and refusing to try any other sport besides t-ball. I don't understand it. Always upstairs with his trains or his coloring books. It's not normal, Anne. He should be playing outside, he should have more than one friend.”

“Ah”, Anne started, knowing she had a way to get her husband off of the current subject, “now there's something we can completely agree on.” Robin cocked an eyebrow.

“Which part?”

“Harry has too few friends, and I agree he needs to socialize more than just his play dates with Louis.” Robin cringed.

“If I had my way, there would BE no 'play dates'.”

“I'm well aware of that. But seeing as how Johannah isn't leaving my life anytime soon, and neither is Louis, that's a moot point. What we can agree on is that Harry needs more social outlets and new ways to meet more children his own age.”

“He needs to meet more young boys who are being raised the way young boys ought to be raised.”

“So what do you propose?”

“Well, rocket football sign-ups are next week,” he started, “oh don't look at me like that, Anne. It's flag football, for goodness sake. The boy won't be hurt and running outside will give him some much needed stamina. I'd like to see him play football in high school, too, so this is a good start.”

“Well, let's not push anything just yet. Harry?” His mother turned to him and fixed her eyes on him, “would you like to try football, love? You'll get lots of new friends and plenty of time outside.”

In all honesty, there were precious few things Harry could think of that he'd rather do less than football. But even at seven years old, he knew he was fighting a losing battle. It was no use to try and argue when Robin made a suggestion. His “suggestions” weren't that at all. They were requirements masked as such. So rather than argue, the young boy fixed a smile on his face and nodded.

“Excellent!” Robin exclaimed. “You know, Anne, Tom Holloway's boy is going to be playing, too. I really would love to make a connection with the Holloway's, could be an excellent business contact to have under my belt if ever needed. Maybe if he and Harry hit it off we can invite them over for dinner.”

 

Harry's eyes snapped open with a gasp. He inhaled the dust cloud around him too quickly and began to cough and splutter as it hit his lungs. A pounding knock hit his eardrums, and through the haze of confusion as to where he was and what was happening, he realized that the renovators were here. He quickly stood and shook out his clothes and hair, casting one last look over his shoulder at the photograph as he sprinted out of the room, down the hall, and down the stairs to the front door.

“So sorry”, he heaved as he opened the door with panting breath, “got a bit preoccupied.”

“You're Mr. Styles?” The man who stood at his door had a shiny, round, red face and a blonde beard that desperately needed a trimming. His eyes were slits below the white construction hat that sat atop his head, and Harry thought if he had to guess, he'd guess he was bald underneath it. The tag affixed to the front of his worn denim uniform shirt read “HI I'M PHIL”. Phil stuck his hand out and Harry returned the gesture with a firm grip and a nod.

“Yes, I'm Harry Styles.”

“Phil James, nice to meet you. Sorry we were a titch late, bit of a delayed start this morning. One of my guys has the flu.”

“Oh. Well, no problem. Is there anything you need from me?” Phil shook his head, but held out a hollow plastic clip board with a stack of papers on it.

“I just need you to sign everywhere that's highlighted for permission to enter on a daily basis until the job is done and all of those other good things.” Harry took the pen from the top of the clipboard and began to flip through the papers, signing his name where ever he saw the bright neon stripe of highlighter placed. He stepped back as he continued to flip through to allow Phil and his other contractors to enter the house. When he reached the last paper and scribbled his signature, he turned to find Phil and handed him back the board and the pen.

“I don't need to stay, right?”

“Not at all. I've got your phone number. If we need anything, we'll be in touch.”

“Excellent. Thank you.”

“Have a nice day!” Phil called as Harry turned to walk out of the front door. When he'd gotten outside, he grasped his phone yet again to see a text message from Niall.

Hope you don't mind we're drinking your whiskey. I'll have it replaced by the time you get back... or Liam will! Haha.

Harry rolled his eyes with a smile on his face. He opened the text and began to move his thumbs across the keypad to respond.

Don't mind at all. I need to grab a drink, too, I think.

He pocketed the phone yet again, climbed back into his car, and twisted the keys to start the engine. He saw Phil and the other men moving heavy looking things from a white truck down a ramp and in through the wide open front door and all he could think was that it felt as though things that heavy were sitting on his shoulders.


	2. Chapter II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the world has been going crazy, I have been writing. Warnings in this for terminal illness. There's also a fair amount of angst in this chapter (as there will be in the whole thing), and there's Zouis. (Don't worry, it doesn't last. You'll see.)
> 
> Note: This chapter is split into present time, a flashback, and then briefly back to the present. The flashback is delineated by breaks in text. I would make it italics but I'm uploading this from my phone, so it'll have to do!
> 
> Again, so much thanks to my constant and faithful betas Tin and Bec. I would be lost without you two. Especially with my painfully awkward feelings about smut. 
> 
> Per usual, this is a work of fiction and is intended as such. For the love of everything that's holy, do not send this to anyone affiliated with One Direction. 
> 
> Let's go!

Tick, tick, tick. Louis’ fingers moved across the keys at lightning speed, banging out the email he'd been meaning to send to his boss for two days now.

Nick, thanks for the extension. I'll have the mock-ups to you by tomorrow night. Mom’s doing well, thanks. -Louis

“Bastard doesn't care about how well she is”, Louis whispered to himself and no one else. He sat alone on the couch in his mother’s living room, the grandfather clock in the corner tick-tocking away the minutes and the hours as he tried to piece together a suitable presentation for his relentless boss, the wool upholstery of the sofa making the undersides of his calves itch. These damn pajama bottoms always rode up when he sat and he’d been meaning to get new ones for ages now. 

He huffed a sigh as his fingers hovered above the keyboard. The consistent mental scrutiny that always happened when he sent an email to Nick played out like a scripted monologue in his mind. Was it too short? Curt? Should he write more? He'd just read an article in the Times a few mornings ago about successful people writing short emails but he always worried he sounded rude. Nick was rude enough for the both of them. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Sometimes in the silence he could feel the age of this house. It creaked when the wind blew, as it was apt to do in the Pacific Northwest. The hardwood floors had a thin coating of dust across them that danced into the sunbeams filtering through the windows, golden and lazy just like his mother’s cat, Flapjack, who lay next to Louis on the couch, snoozing softly. Try as he might, he never could get Flapjack away from him. He had a begrudging relationship with his mother's constant companion and after six months of living back in Lynwood, they had come to a place of quiet tolerance for one another, though Flapjack seemed much more eager to be Louis’ friend than the other way round.

His finger hit the send button just as he heard the back door in the kitchen swing open with a creak. It was always difficult for Eleanor to get his mother through with that screen door sticking the way it did. He'd been meaning to fix it, but it was just one on a long list of things he had to do and there were never enough hours in the day to see the list satisfied. He moved the laptop from its overheated place on his lap to the end table beside him and felt his spine separate in a stretch as he made to stand up. Flapjack stirred with annoyance and Louis saw the toes on his paws spread as his mouth opened into a yawn. 

“Louis, could I get your help with these bags?” Eleanor called from the kitchen. Louis made his way into the small room, feet crackling on the mint green linoleum. Eleanor stood with her arms around two brown paper bags, face contorted with the effort of not dropping them. Johannah sat at the table to the left with a concerned look on her face. “Don't look at me like that, love”, Eleanor started, “it's not your fault you can't help and I wouldn't let you, anyway.” Johannah put a hand to her mouth as Louis lifted the bags from Eleanor’s arms, a look of relief washing over the pretty brunette’s face before she turned to go back to the car to retrieve more.

“Thank goodness you're here, Louis. Sometimes I don't know how she manages with me.” Johannah’s voice was soft, like a wisp of a cloud. She was always soft spoken on treatment days, Louis never knew if it was a physical reaction to the medicine or a mental reaction to his mother facing her own mortality. Either way, it was a far cry from the strong voice he'd grown accustomed to in thirty-two years. His mother was the consummate pillar of unmovable power, even through her illness, but treatment days were the hard days when she wasn't her normal self. Louis despised treatment days.

“She manages just fine and she's lucky to have you as a patient.” He didn't mean to sound exasperated, but he was sure sometimes it sounded as much. He was never prepared for the days his mother decided she was a burden on everyone who spent more than five minutes in her presence, but it was so very out of character for Johannah that Louis’ first reaction was to treat her as if she were someone being silly. 

Eleanor stomped back through the door with two more bags, which Louis swiftly removed from her arms. 

“Oh, thanks for that! Not having to put those away will be a big help! Now we can get you to bed, dear!” She eyed Jo from where she stood by Louis and waggled her eyebrows. 

 

She was a striking young woman, to be sure. She had a round face with delicate cheekbones and large brown eyes that held something like innocence in them, even though as a former hospice nurse, she'd seen more death than most could imagine. It's why Louis had hired her. When they'd learned that Johannah’s cancer had returned and wasn't going away this time, Louis had moved home. It had become obvious about a week into his move that he wouldn't be able to manage alone, but it had taken him another three weeks of active interviewing before settling on Eleanor, who'd made an excellent impression on both of them. Johannah had even joked about setting the two of them up the first week she was there, when El had matter of factly turned to Louis and without a second thought said, “You're gay, aren't you?” Louis had almost choked on his gin and tonic before wheezing out an affirmative answer between his fits of laughter

Louis was putting the peanut butter in one of the matching mint green cabinets by the fridge when the crash sounded from above him. He was out of the kitchen and up the stairs in a flash, kneeling beside his mother, who lay crying on the floor of her bedroom. “It's okay, mom”, he cooed in her ear as he helped her to her feet. 

“I'm so sorry, Louis.” Eleanor was beside him on her other elbow now, guiding Johannah back to the fluffy down duvet and feathered pillows that made up the four post bed Jo spent most of her days in. Louis was lost for words as he squeezed her elbow reassuringly. Seeing the pinched look of concern on his face, Eleanor bent down to Johannah’s ear. 

“It's alright, love. I just need you to get back to bed. You get dizzy on treatment days so bed is best, yeah? There you go”, Eleanor said brightly as they settled her into the duvet. Her eyes were still wide with the shock of the fall and glistening with regret for being what she considered burdensome. She continued to look to Louis for reassurance, something unspoken, even with Eleanor crooning and pressing a water glass into her hand. Louis forced a smile as he sat on the edge of her bed. Words would not come to his mouth no matter how he searched for them, so he found himself gripping her hand tightly and staring at a spot on her pillow as Eleanor moved around him, gathering pills and other things. It was far too much emotional weight to bear to look into his mother's eyes. They’d once glinted with the same impish sparkle as his own, and day by day they were fading. Uncertainty and panic began to flood into his mind, and he certainly wasn't equipped to sort through that. He released her hand when she finally started closing her eyes, head back against the pillow.

“You need to rest”, he said as he stood, “and I have some work to finish.” He bent down to kiss her forehead. “I'll be back up in an hour for lunch.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. The burn of being a bad son, of lying to his mother about being there for her, seared in his throat as he spoke the lie. She never made him feel as guilty as he should have been made to feel, never chastised him for avoiding her. Everyone was kidding themselves if they said she didn't carry the pain of his absence in her eyes, though. He avoided making eye contact as he arranged the duvet around her, gave Eleanor a friendly smile, and headed back down the stairs.

His phone was buzzing on the armrest of the sofa when he reached it, Flapjack giving him an annoyed look for having unintentionally and indirectly disturbing his slumber. 

“Go upstairs then”, he said to the cat as he reached for his phone. His stomach began to sink when he thought it might be Nick to press some more guilt at having taken so long with the mock-ups, but he lifted again considerably when he saw his youngest sister’s face peering at him from the screen, frozen in a smile. “Need money again, Fiz?” He greeted unceremoniously.

“Very funny. Now that you mention it…” She launched into an explanation about only eating noodles for the past three weeks apart from the off occasion when her boyfriend brought her tacos. 

“Proper gentleman, he is,” Louis said on a laugh. Eleanor had come down the stairs while Felicite had been airing her college life grievances, moving around the kitchen and fixing something for lunch, no doubt. When Fizz had been home last time, she'd hit it off exceptionally well with Eleanor. Not as well as Charlotte, the middle child and oldest of his two sisters, but still well enough for El to pause as she headed back upstairs and ask if it was her on the phone. He nodded as Fizzy carried on obliviously on the other end, putting his hand over the mouth of the phone and whispering, “I want her to speak with mom. Hang on.” Eleanor giggled. 

Fizzy was still talking about some paper when Louis resumed his attention. She was a junior at University of Washington studying law, and her ability to talk was one way Louis knew she was cut out for it. “Er, Fizz that's great, but mom wants to talk. Can I hand you over to her?” Felicite sighed.

“I want to talk to her, too, but I could really use your help with this. Can we Skype later?” Louis had missed what she needed help with, but he assumed it was something he could do or had done. 

“That's fine. I'll text you soon to set it up. Don't eat too many noodles!” And he handed the phone over to Eleanor who took it with a warm greeting to Fizzy and a mouthed “thank you” from Louis, returning a just as silent “welcome” when Fizzy was off on some other track again, she was back up the stairs in no time. 

He sat down on the couch again as Flapjack stood and stretched his front legs out, spreading his toes again and lightly bounding off the couch to follow Eleanor up the stairs to the bedroom. Finally alone again, he powered up his laptop and stared at the screen in front of him. Working for The Grimshaw Agency had been a pipe dream during his internship in college. Unlike so many, he'd foregone his undergrad at UW for Southern California at USC. He was an anomaly, he supposed, always wanting to leave the Pacific Northwest and see the world, though in his younger years he should have had reason enough to stay.

Those reasons played through like an animated list as he stared at the screen in front of him. He had had everything he wanted before moving home, and he hadn't even minded living in Seattle again. He was single, finally nailing a morning running routine, able to afford a good place of his own and weekends of recklessness with other gay coworkers. Coming back to Lynwood had been a harsh reminder of his constant penance. This dusty old house with its threadbare rooms and faded yellow siding and old oak furniture reminded him daily that soon he'd be left to be some sort of makeshift patriarch, that he'd only been fooling himself by playing the hotshot bachelor. Nick had been good enough to let him work remotely from his mother's home, and now look at him. He couldn't even finish a simple mock-up. 

 

Nike was one of their biggest clients, they'd had a gigantic office party the day they landed the account. Their fall campaign push needed to be big. Other brands were making comebacks on the heels of the renewed running obsession, and Nike wanted to make sure they retained the brand power they'd accrued over the years of competition. Louis knew how advertising worked, one weak link in the chain of a team and he'd be done for. He'd be running internet campaigns off his MacBook for etsy shops. 

He rubbed his eyes and blinked three times to try to refocus his eyes on the screen again. It was no use; images of a curly haired, green eyed boy kept flashing in front of him. The ghosts were in every corner of this house, in the perpetually green kitchen that was too small for more than two people, always smelling of bacon grease and Murphy’s Oil Soap. In the ink stain on the matching blue chair across from him. In the clink of the chain link fence that surrounded the house, every time the mailman came and opened the gate out front, Louis’ mind raced.

His mother’s illness hadn't changed a thing about his childhood home, and that was what he hated the most. Nothing was the same as the last time he had seen this place, twenty-two and fresh off of two years studying abroad in Paris. Not even his mother, the consistent foundation, was the same. It seemed remarkably unfair, therefore, that if everything had to be so drastically altered, that he was still required to relive all of the memories hanging over this town like morning fog, day in and day out. If she was so different and he was so different, if the girls were, as in Fizzy’s case finishing up at UW or in Charlotte’s case saving to open her own salon and making a quiet life for herself with her boyfriend up in Oak Harbor, supporting him in his military aspirations, both of them grown up in their own right, if nothing was the same and his mother was fading by the day, then why was everything so damn unmanageable?

She wouldn't be here much longer. He was losing her. The woman who had always let Louis be who he was, who had painted his nails when he was a child without question, who had been at every recital and every play and musical over the years without fail, the woman who had cleaned up bloody noses when other children had decided to be cruel and told him he was special and perfect just the way he was. She was leaving him with every passing day. Sometimes he wished she would just be gone all of a sudden because maybe it'd be easier than to see her fade like this. But then, he knew that wasn't right and he hated himself for thinking it. 

These thoughts couldn't stay. Louis was an expert at shoving out ghastly thoughts. He'd been doing it long before his mother's illness returned for its final battle. He clamped his laptop closed with a sigh. He worked better drunk when he was moody, anyway, so a good night out with liquor to forget might actually help him make this deadline. If his mother weren't having a bad day, he'd stay home and drink after she was asleep. But, as it was, he needed to escape. He picked up the phone from beside him and began mindlessly texting the number he knew would get a response. Sure enough, it came in less than thirty seconds. 

He could always count on Zayn to be available. 

He set his phone back in its place beside him and stood to get ready. His back fell into a stretch again, supposed it was the best way to relieve the tension that had settled at the base of his spine for such all encompassing thoughts. He had no idea why the boy had been on his mind today of all days, but he was determined to get him out of there. 

Two hours later, after taking his time showering and going through the old steps of his night out routine from back when he lived in Seattle, after kissing his mother's forehead and climbing in his car despite the rain that was falling in sheets, after driving the twenty minutes to Everett, he was settling into a bar stool next to Zayn at Myx. He could smell damp leather and stale cigarette smoke as soon as he sat down, mixed with the spicy sweetness of Zayn’s cologne it was more a comfort than anything else he'd had today. 

“Drive okay?” Zayn asked shortly as Louis shrugged out of his jacket. He wasn't much for words, Zayn Malik, and that's precisely why Louis enjoyed his company. He never asked Louis to talk, never begged more of him than what he could give, which admittedly wasn't much and probably never would be. But Zayn didn't usually ask questions and just sort of went with the flow. He never got upset when Louis had to leave early, cut things short, or didn't call back. And, perhaps the best part about Zayn was that he was the exact opposite of everything Louis was trying to avoid, with his burning golden eyes, caramel skin, and soft black hair that he rarely left uncoiffed. He was a veritable James Dean and Louis was not in the business of taming wild horses. But it was fun to run with them from time to time. 

“Yeah, drive was good. How’ve you been?” Zayn shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I've been alright, I suppose. Things are going well in my neck of the woods.” Zayn lived in Seattle through the weeks and spent weekends with his family in Everett, though he worked Monday through Friday at a tattoo parlor downtown, not too far from Pike’s Place. Louis had gone back one day years later and chatted Zayn up, happily discovering he was at least semi-interested. “How about you? Did you finish the project? How's your mum?” Those words spoken in that timbre from anyone else would have convinced Louis the person didn't actually care, but he knew Zayn cared. 

“She's alright, I suppose. Had a bit of an episode today. I confess that's sort of why I'm here. Couldn't be in that house anymore.” 

“Understandable”, Zayn said simply as the bartender appeared in front of them. She was wearing a silver top that shined like a disco ball and had flecks of glitter in her hair and silver eye makeup smeared above her deep green eyes. Louis knew he was going to be annoyed with her. Green eyed people had that effect on him. 

“What're we drinking, boys?” She asked in a voice that squeaked like a happy chihuahua, pulling her lips back in a smile to reveal less than perfect teeth. 

“Tall Guinness for me”, Zayn started and motioned to Louis, “same for him but a double of Jameson, as well.” The girl set about the work of pouring their drinks as Zayn fixed his gaze back to Louis. “On me”, he said softly. Louis would have argued with any other person, but months had taught him it was useless to do that with Zayn so he shoved his wallet back into his pocket and muttered a thank you. 

Five beers and five shots of whiskey in, and Louis knew that his bartender’s name was Serena. He also knew she had three kids at home and her husband was in the Air Force, deployed to Afghanistan. She missed him terribly, he knew that too. They'd had a conversation about missing people with Zayn looking on, chiming in on the off notes with words of wisdom about being self-sufficient until Louis held a finger to his lips to hush him. 

“You're a very good person, Zayn Malik”, Louis slurred through his sixth shot, “but sometimes you make too much sense and I need you to shhhh.” Louis took the finger from Zayn’s mouth and pressed it to his own as he hissed out his signal for him to be quiet. Zayn watched in bemusement as Louis slung his arm around his shoulder. “Don't be mad, Zayn.”

“I'm definitely not mad.” Concern was the look that clouded his features now, Louis was sure somewhere in his sober brain that Zayn had seen him plenty buzzed but never, ever this entirely heels up drunk. Embarrassment at the thought colored Louis’ cheeks with hot pink burning; it might have been the alcohol talking, but whatever it was, he pushed back from Zayn and looked around the bar. And that's when he saw it, the tall figure leaving through the back door with broad muscled shoulders and soft springs of curly brown hair, narrow hips and the longest legs. But then it couldn't be him. That was impossible. Not in Everett. Not… 

“Harry…” Louis whispered, as everything went black.

————————

Louis pressed his finger to the button one more time. If he didn't get an answer after this buzz, he'd leave. It was that simple. He didn't really know why he was here in the first place. He counted down the seconds in his mind. 

Four, three, two…

“Hello?” The crackly voice from the other side of the speaker box was the most familiar voice in the world.

Shit.

Louis pressed the button to talk.

“It's uh… Harry, it's me. Louis.” The buzzer sounded loud in his ears and he heard the lock on the door in front of him release itself. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open to admit him into a musky entryway that smelled of marijuana and Chinese delivery. It was only slightly warmer than the foggy mist that hung outside that he had so desperately wanted to escape from. 

He found apartment O4 and stood in front of the red wooden door with peeling brass numbers. The carpet beneath him, red chintz, felt impossibly squishy and it made his skin crawl. Somewhere down the hall a TV blared out local news for the King County area. Louis recognized KOMO News 4 when he heard it. He knocked on the door, waiting with his eyes on the doorknob. Finally, it swung open and there he was in front of him. After three years. Harry Styles. And God, if it were possible, he was even more gorgeous than when he'd left him last time. 

“Harry”, Louis breathed in a sigh that inched it's way like fire through his shoulders, wrapping around and shooting down to his stomach. “It's good to see you.” There was something that had overtaken those green eyes since the last time he saw them. He'd always gotten lost in Harry’s eyes, so full of hope you could swear you'd seen the lights of fairies when you looked into them, but they were cloudy now. Brooding. Angry. It took Louis by surprise. He half expected the tall man in front of him, whose hair was growing long and chin was struggling to form facial hair, to bark at him to leave. 

“Louis.” The voice coming from this man had grown octaves deeper in three years, but hearing his name from that throat again set his ears buzzing, and he couldn't help the smile that made its way across his face, even with the stormy stranger in front of him. He wasn't a stranger at all. He was still his Harry, just with a few more coats on. He almost made to hug him and then thought better of it. 

“You called.” Best not to launch into a rom com speech in this hallway, Louis thought. 

“I did. Come in.” Harry stepped aside to let Louis pass him, gaining entry into a cool, dark apartment with plain beige walls and carpeting and college life ornamentation. There was a long table that had old food on it that Louis knew was a beer pong table, a futon, wicker chair, and old television set in the living room, and a beat up bookshelf that housed copies of FIFA video games and Harry Potter books. It left a lot to be desired, though the smell was infinitely better than the hallway. Harry had definitely deodorized the place, then. Louis spied his beat up guitar in one corner before looking back to him, the smile still firmly set on his face.

“You sounded desperate on the phone”, he said gently. The stony gaze that matched his almost made his smile falter, but Louis had known Harry since forever, he was used to his moods and refused to be fazed. He quirked an eyebrow, still smiling, and saw Harry’s stone start to chip a bit. His face softened and the clouds started to part in his eyes. Inevitably, Louis could see the twinkling lights that lay there shining back at him again.

“I am desperate. I called because I can't call Robin or mom. I'm basically fucked.” He looked defeated now, shoulders slumped and hair hanging in his downcast gaze. “I didn't want to call, Lou, but I didn't know what else to do.”

Lou. It was like taking a scoop measure to the reserves of resolve Louis had come in with, and Harry had just demolished a large supply of it. He had promised himself as he drove down here that he'd make it short and brief. He was dangerous around Harry, it never ended well and they hadn't seen each other since, well since the night it had all gone to ruins. He was only home for another week, anyway, he'd never be able to stay and he didn't want to give false impressions before he was gone for good to Boston. His first real job. But when he had seen Harry’s number on his phone, he'd picked up before he could really think better of it. 

“It's alright”, he started softly, “but why am I here? What's gone so wrong?” Harry's eyes darted to the door and Louis saw him swallow hard. 

“It's a lot to explain. What do you think of a drink? There's this place around the corner that makes the best gin and tonics.” Louis cocked his head.

“Harry, I can't--”

“I know you can't stay”, Harry cut in sharply. “I just thought I could explain over a drink.” Louis’ mind raced with possibilities. Even now he'd kept a wide berth around Harry since he'd opened the door. He couldn't let himself get too close, he knew what happened when he did. Louis didn't need liquor to get drunk, the presence of the boy in front of him was enough for the air in the room to get thick and shiny, enough for him to feel dizzy and overwhelmed. That was what Harry Styles did to him. Even now, perfectly sober, he could feel his skin tingle with the electricity coming from him. He should say no, should turn right there and leave.

“Sure, let's go get a drink.” Harry's face beamed with satisfaction while Louis was split between the butterflies that had been released in the hollow of his gut and wanting to punch himself in his own face. He shrugged his mist-damp coat back onto his shoulders as Harry slipped into his shoes and a trench coat that cinched at his incredibly narrow waist, accentuating his hips. The jingle of Harry’s keys was what raked Louis back to reality, but before he knew it he was eyeing his legs again. They'd always been long, when he was young they'd been awkward. The last time Louis saw Harry’s legs they'd been wrapped around his waist. 

Harry jingled his keys again and Louis’ head snapped to attention, his eyes fixing firmly onto Harry’s face. He willed himself to focus, taking unnoticeable breaths in through his nostrils. He forced a friendly and cool smile. 

“Ready?” He ushered Harry out of the apartment and linked his arm through Harry’s without thinking, Harry jerking his arm back to his side. Maybe their reactions were delayed that night, because as Harry spun around to face Louis it was as if they were seeing each other for the first time in three years. Louis saw lines of tiredness and anxiety etched near Harry’s mouth, his cheeks were sharper, more angular and hollow, the contrast from his shoulders -which had always been broad- and his hips much more pronounced. Everything about him looked more severe, more battle worn. Tired. He had missed him. 

For his part, Harry was no longer eyeing him with the sneer he had carried earlier, but with a much more inquisitive look. He still seemed to carry a closed off posture, but it didn't seem as openly hostile and cold as it had been back in the apartment. His eyes seemed hungry to consume every inch of Louis and compare him with the naive twenty year old he had last seen those years ago. 

“Are you okay?” Louis asked tentatively. He knew the answer to this question. Louis had eyes that he was capable of using, and Harry was not okay. Still, he nodded, eyes wide.

“I just can't believe you're here.” Louis’ heart could have poured out of his chest if there had been an opening. Harry had never had much of an issue being vulnerable, it had been the reason Louis had been so thrown now that he thought of it. He wasn't used to a guarded Harry. Not with him. He linked their arms again and propelled them forward to the exit of Harry’s building. 

“I'm here.” He smiled again, a genuine smile of warmth this time. 

By the time they arrived back to Harry’s apartment building, it was three in the morning and they had both had too much to drink. Louis had talked a bit about his time studying in Paris and the scenery and how he missed everything terribly, but mostly Harry had talked about how difficult college had been, being cut off from his parents. He'd made it through his first two years entirely on scholarship money and gotten a job as a barista the summer before his third year, surviving on the meager funds in upper student housing and trying to get sleep between working at the cafe, classes, and his internship at a radio station. 

And that had been why Harry had called. His car had broken down last week, almost come to a stop on I-5 and killed him, he'd told Louis. He'd been missing his internship for almost a week now and was in sharp danger of losing it. If he did that, he'd fail his semester and he couldn't afford to have that happen. He also couldn't afford a new vehicle. He was between a rock and a hard place and he'd been going through his phone the night before when he'd seen Louis’ number and dialed without thinking. 

Crashing into the apartment at such an hour brought some swearing from the apartment one door over, with Louis yelling back loudly that the faceless man could go fuck himself before Harry, nearly bent double from laughing, pressed a hand to his mouth to hush him. 

“I'll take that asshole with my bare fists”, Louis snarled. Harry, wheezing, stood himself up and snicked Louis on the chin.

“Good luck, I've tried. Carl’s got guns. I barely escaped with my life.” His eyes were laughing, but Louis grew serious.

“Why are you living here, Harry?” Harry shrugged, his face finally growing solemn.

“Didn't have much of a choice, did I?” Louis’ eyes crinkled in a painful glance as he brushed a finger along Harry’s hip bone.

“Harry, I--” Harry placed a finger on Louis’ lips this time, wrapping a hand around Louis’ waist and pressing a hot, gin flavored kiss to Louis’ lips. The weight of what was happening shook Louis to his core. He should pull away, stop him from doing this to both of them. It only lead to disappointment and heartache when Louis had to leave. And he had to leave. He wanted Harry more than he had wanted anything before and his brain was too drunk to pull him out of the kiss, so he gave himself over to it, winding his fingers into Harry’s hair and pressing their chests together. 

They fell more than walked to Harry’s bed, lips only parting when it became physically impossible to take a step forward without leaving each other, always finding it again with more heat. Louis’ head was spinning from the pace of it all. Five hours ago Harry Styles had been his ex-boyfriend sprung back to life because of necessity. Now, there was nothing he needed more than Harry’s lips on his, his skin on his. They crashed into the bed ripping clothes off of each other in desperation. Louis was usually so good at being gentle with Harry, but Harry himself was not being gentle. 

Louis had to admire the work Harry had done in three years. His biceps bulged with the strength of a grown man’s, his chest solid and strong, a butterfly tattooed just under his pecs. Louis began planting gentle bites all along his chest and neck as he fumbled with his belt buckle, fingers still heavy and clumsy with alcohol. Louis didn't have to take his pants off to know that Harry was painfully hard. He was, as well, and he pressed his hardness against Harry’s thigh as he continued his work of planting biting kisses on Harry’s neck and jawline. 

“Fuck, Louis”, Harry moaned gently as his buckle finally released itself, shoving his pants down hurriedly. Louis sat back to take in the familiarity, this much had not changed. Harry’s cock glistened with precome and twitched in anticipation as Louis’ hand wrapped around its base, Harry shuddering with another light moan at the touch of it. He leaned forward to whisper in Louis’ ear. “Want to see you, Lou.” Louis’ breathing grew even heavier as Harry's breath tickled his ear and he began nibbling at his earlobe, his fingers fumbling with Louis’ own buckle now. 

Perhaps the practice from his own had made him quicker, but Louis felt a pressure release as his buckle sprang open and his pants began to fall, Harry pushing down what remained behind and digging the pads of his fingers into the fleshiest parts of his ass. The slightest hint of friction on his cock as Harry moved closer made him gasp, instantly searching for more. He was past overflowing with want, he needed Harry. Had to have all of him. 

“All of you, Harry. Fuck.” Harry wrapped his hand around Louis’ shaft and just the suggestion of what was about to happen had Louis squeezing his eyes tight. His head fell back in a loud moan as Harry’s hand began to pump. There were stars dancing at the edges of his vision but he hadn't forgotten his own hand, he returned Harry’s motions in kind, pressing kisses to his lips, hot and breathy. As Harry felt Louis begin to move, his own movements sped up, taking Louis’ lower lip into his mouth on a bite. Louis began to talk as he always did.

“Missed this so much. Fuck. So good, Harry. So pretty.” Harry had always loved praise, and it seemed that hadn't changed either, because he puffed up with it, growing stronger, Louis desperately trying to match pace with his hand motions. His breaths were growing ever more shallow as he found his way to the edge, wrapping his free arm around Harry’s neck and drawing him into the deepest of kisses as he fell over, the making of a shout falling almost silent into Harry’s mouth. He shot warm into Harry’s hand, never stilling his own. It was seconds before Harry’s body began to tense underneath him.

“Fuck. Oh fuck. Louis”, he gasped, ribbons of come falling hot and creamy into Louis’ hand as he begged another long, drawn out kiss from Harry’s lips. Louis collapsed next to Harry in a sticky, sweaty mess as he planted more kisses along his arms, listening to Harry’s heavy breathing as he rode the full wave of his orgasm. 

When Harry's breathing had started to normalize, Louis nuzzled his face into the crook of his arm. 

“Well, that's been awhile hasn't it?” Harry smiled wordlessly and flicked Louis’ bum. “You never were particularly chatty after sex.” Louis chuckled as Harry rolled over slightly. 

“And you never could shut up.” Harry's smile, even in the darkness, made Louis’ heart jump. It seemed like a rare thing to cross his face these days. It was a shame, Louis thought if he had to think up the most beautiful thing to write a sonnet about, it would be Harry’s smile. Louis playfully nibbled Harry's ear.

“Fancy another go?” 

“Do I have time to recuperate?” Louis smiled like a devilish imp.

“Never.” 

Three more orgasms a piece and just as the sun was creeping up, they drifted off to sleep entangled in each other, sweat and come and all. 

When Harry awoke that afternoon, the bed beside him was empty. 

————

Louis woke with a start. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there, but he knew the black silk sheets beneath him were not his own. He ran his hands along them, becoming very aware of a heavy presence beside him, fast asleep. For a fleeting moment he thought it was…

“Zayn?” Louis whispered. He'd seen those tattoos before and knew whom they belonged to, but he still had questions. Zayn began to stir just as Louis was realizing the unsettled riot in his stomach and the pounding in his head. He groaned and fell back on the pillow as Zayn flipped over.

“Morning, sunshine” Zayn said in a low, sarcastic tone. Louis shot him as much of a death glance out of his peripherals as he could. 

“Did we?” 

“Yep.” 

“Oh excellent”, Louis’ tone was dripping with even more sarcasm than Zayn had mustered. Zayn managed to stay incredibly even keeled, even in the midst of being insulted. 

“Well it wasn't great for me either, you know. You're usually an excellent shag but you were a bit out of your mind last night. Kept going on about some dude named Harry.” Louis groaned again as he sat up in spite of what his body was telling him to do.

He stumbled his way to the bathroom and swung the medicine cabinet open, seizing a bottle of aspirin and cranking the faucet. The bottle clattered to the ground as the realization of what he'd seen yesterday hit him full force and he slid to the ground.

“Jesus, you alright?” Zayn’s voice came to the doorway. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“You realize what this means, Zayn? I saw him.” The look on Zayn’s face remained painfully oblivious as it hit Louis again. 

If he had really seen who he thought he had seen yesterday, and he had because he just knew he had, then it meant he was at a bar in Everett. 

Harry Styles had come back to Lynwood.

**Author's Note:**

> Jamie, Bec, Manny, Benton, and anyone else who read this and was so amazingly encouraging, thank you. 
> 
> Amanda, my best friend and partner in crime... you're the other half of my brain.
> 
> It's important to note that this is a duel narratives work of fiction. Chapters will be told with two different voices, varying between Harry's perspective and Louis' perspective. It is co-authored between my sister and I, with her writing Louis and me writing Harry. As such, each consecutive chapter may not sound the same, but the plot is definitely unified. 
> 
> As always, this story is a work of fiction. While the people upon which these characters are based are real people, the characters contained herein are just that-- fictional characters. Please do not send this work to One Direction or any person affiliated with the band.


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